


Drunk

by goldenthunderstorms (PotatosaurusOfBroadway)



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drinking, Heavy Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, but with some monty and percy, heavy abuse mention, idk it could've happened, just enjoy mkay?, just out of eton, not entirely canon compliant?, or cry, poor monty, self deprecation, some sorta suicidal thoughts but not really, um its sort of a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 00:42:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16587440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotatosaurusOfBroadway/pseuds/goldenthunderstorms
Summary: "It was my third day home from Eton. Whatever twisted idea I had of what hell was like, this was so much worse."Monty is in pain after just returning from Eton. He tries to drink his sorrows away.





	Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> woohoo its big angst hours  
> obviously theres abuse and alcohol mention so ya know stay safe

It was my third day home from Eton. Whatever twisted idea I had of what hell was like, this was so much worse. It was as if Father could not decide whether he wanted to lock down on me or to renounce me entirely. One moment he would be watching me with the glare of a hawk and would command me around, calling me  _ Henry  _ and using the same voice he used with me when retrieving me from Eton. Other times, he would act as if I was not there, staring through me and speaking over and around me.

I preferred the latter. Father’s cold silence was easier to bear than his burning fury. I was constantly nervous, jumpy, flinching at every movement. I would flinch when he put his hand on my shoulder and Father would tighten his grip and hiss so only I could hear:  _ “Sit still.” _

It wasn’t as if I wasn’t used to harsh treatment from my father: punitive words, small blows. But he had never beaten me like this. He had never spoken to me like this. Not even when Richard Peele blabbed about our kiss. It was worse than anything I’d ever been succumb to. It was as if, maybe, my father had lost all hope for me. Maybe this had finally convinced him that I was worthless.

I felt worthless. I felt worse than I ever had. I felt useless, I felt ashamed, I felt stupid. Oh, it was easy to be confident and righteous when faced with the headmaster and his disgust, but not so easy with your father’s rings cutting your face. How naive I had been, thinking what I had done was right, that nobody could convince me otherwise. It was wrong, oh so wrong, and the truth of it rattled in me with every painful breath and every agonizing movement. The pain had hardly faded, two days later. I didn’t cry from the pain anymore, though. I was used to it and I deserved it. I deserved it all. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted to stop feeling this way, physically and emotionally. Despite my promise to Percy the day before, everything in me wanted to die—no, was  _ telling  _ me to die.

_ You wouldn’t embarrass your father if you were dead. _

_ You wouldn’t be a burden to Percy if you were dead. _

_ You wouldn’t be a bloody waste of space if you were dead. _

That night, my father was having colleagues of his over for dinner. I was not permitted to be there. I was sure it was because I was so battered. I would embarrass my father before his colleagues and we couldn’t have that. Therefore, I was excluded under the pretense that I was “feeling ill”—which I damn well was, though not for reasons my father implied. Of course I was a scandal by now, expelled from Eton, not that my father was eager to share the full story of why. Most people had more sense than to ask, but the magnitude was obvious, measured in the bruises that decorated my entire being.

I chose to spend my isolation in my bedroom. Anywhere else in the house I would be subject to the pitying or judging stares of other people. Regardless, being holed up in my room without means of entertainment did not do well for me or my thoughts. My mind ran circles around the past few days. Tears built up behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Tears would make my whole present state all that more pathetic. I’d made a silent pact with myself. I am only allowed to cry when he actually hits me, only after enough blows for the tears to be unstoppable. Anything else is uncalled for and if I cry too early on, Father scolds me for crying. So no, I wouldn’t cry now. I was better than that. There were few things I was  _ better than  _ these days. Maybe I just need something to pride myself in: the great accomplishment of not crying.

_ Get up and stop crying and put your hands down and look at me when I’m talking to you. _

But the pride drains out of me, knowing this would please my father. I don’t want to please him because then he would win. But it wasn’t as if I was winning, battered and bruised on the floor of my bedroom.

I forced myself to my feet with all the wincing and groaning necessary. I staggered to the door and opened it as quietly as I could. I crept out of the room and into the kitchen, slipping in through a servant’s entrance. The kitchen was near empty now, all the servants on hand at my father’s dinner. Even better, the cellar was open and spirits were free for the taking.

I had drank before, though never too much. All I remember of it was the buzz, the warm, tingly feeling that made me feel as if I was floating away from all my problems and pain.

I wanted that again. I wanted to feel free again.

I snuck into the cellar, grabbing two of the biggest bottles of spirits—I hadn’t bothered to read what they were—that I could find. I smuggled them back to my room as quickly as I could. This alone felt good, this defiance. I may have been ashamed for what I did, but I couldn’t deny that any small rebellion felt good. I understood being hit but I certainly did not enjoy it.

I took the first bottle and drank straight from it. The liquor burned down my throat and I coughed, torturing my poor aching ribs. After a few more drinks, though, it didn’t burn as much. I started to feel that tingle, that freedom, that warmth. My bruises felt numbed. Before I knew what had happened, I’d downed the entire bottle. I wanted more, and I knew that only another bottle wouldn’t make it. I decided to go smuggle some more before I got too drunk to see straight, which I planned to do.

I snuck two more from the cellar. A maid had seen me this time on my way down. She only glanced at me before pretending not to see me. Another servant had been in the kitchen, but I managed to sneak in and out of the cellar with his back turned, and he seemed to turn a blind eye to it for I wasn’t exactly quiet.

When I returned, I had three more bottles to partake of. Surely this would drown my pain and my sorrows. I began on the second bottle. It seemed strange how easily I downed it, having never had so much to drink before. I couldn’t bring myself to care, though. The spirits did their job, that was all that mattered.

I was halfway down the third bottle when my door open. I jumped, thinking it was my father or someone of the like, but there stood Percy, shocked.

“Monty? What in bloody hell are you doing?” He asked, shutting the door behind him.

“Drinking,” I answered casually, my speech more relaxed than it had been in days. “Do you want any, darling?”

“You seem absolutely wasted.” Percy replied drily. He knelt beside me where I sat, cross-legged, on the floor.

I smiled, “Perhaps I am, isn’t that grand? I feel on top of the world, Perce!”

Percy brought a hand to my cheek and I flinched. However, I leaned into the touch after recovering from my flinch. I refused to let anything dampen my freedom now, not even my instincts. Percy was frowning with that concerned look that I had been the recipient of many times. “You are so drunk.” He whispered.

“Is that such a bad thing, darling?”

“How much have you had to drink?” Percy replied, completely ignoring my question.

I gestured vaguely to the two empty bottles on the floor and lifted the half-empty third one in my hand.

Percy took the bottle from me and I whined in protest.

“Percy!”

_ “Monty,” _ he replied sternly. “You certainly do not need this much alcohol in you.”

“I thought you enjoyed these things, Perce? Remember when we snuck those drinks at our parsonage’s Easter service?”

“Of course I do, and that was all in good fun, but this is clearly  _ not _ .”

I tilted my head. “It isn’t? I am quite enjoying myself.”

Percy scoffed, “How so?”

“I feel good! It doesn’t hurt anymore!” I exclaimed, “I don’t even know why I’m drinking anymore!”

Percy shushed me, taking my face in his hands. I winced as he touched the cuts on my cheeks, and he shifted his hold to a gentle one on my shoulders. “Someone will hear you. I can only imagine what your father would say to this.”

“Damn him! Damn him and his words and his damn rings!” I cried, although I tried—or hoped—to be quieter for Percy’s benefit.

Percy might have had tears in his eyes but I felt I was flattering myself to think that anyone would cry over me, even him. His speech yesterday certainly moved me, it had cheered me up for the moment, but it did nothing to quiet my mind.

“Hush, Monty,” he smoothed some of my hair back and stood, taking me by the arm and pulling me up with him. I wobbled to my feet, grateful for the extra inches that Percy had on me so I could grab him for balance. “Come on, Monty.” Percy murmured, helping me to sit on my bed. I suddenly lurched forward, almost against my will, grabbing the bottle he had taken from me. “Monty!”

I brought it to my lips again, drinking as much of it as I could before Percy ripped it away from me. It was nearly empty now, and I felt my buzz revived. The tingling was stronger and my injuries less apparent.

“Dear god, Monty, you can’t keep this up.” Percy muttered. He poured the rest of the bottle out of my window, tossing the empty bottles as well, and shoving the full one under my bed. “I’ll return that later.”

“But why, Perce? Can’t you see this is helping me?” I asked, my head swimming. I fell onto my side on the bed. The pain made me yelp and I clamped a hand over my mouth. I took measured breaths for a moment, trying to regain my composure and return to that floating feeling. Tears burned behind my eyes again but I was even more determined not to cry with Percy here.

Percy watched me, his eyes agonized. “This is  _ not  _ helping. The only thing that will help is getting away from your father. Not like that’ll happen anytime soon, though.” Percy was muttering. I wasn’t sure if he meant for me to listen or not, but I did. It was cruel of him to put such fantasies in my head: fantasies of a world without my father.

I watched him, now, from my sideways position. I didn’t have it in me to sit back up. “This is as close as I can get to it.” I breathe, closing my eyes. “Right now, Perce, I feel too far away. He can’t reach me here. He won’t touch me here.”

I heard the  _ thud  _ as Percy knelt again before me. I opened my eyes to see his face was level with mine and I felt an urge to press my lips to his. It wouldn’t do me any good, though. I internally scolded myself. This was exactly the sort of thing I was supposed to be suppressing and forgetting. But when Percy ran his fingers through my hair with his gentle touch and my eyes fell closed again, a revolting part of me asked:  _ what could be wrong about this? _

I got all my answers as I recalled what my father said to me that day he retrieved me from Eton.

I let out a sound of loss, the freedom gone. The thoughts had returned, intensified now as everything felt stronger with liquor in you. My injuries may have been numbed, but my feelings weren’t.

“Shh, you’re okay, Monty.” Percy whispered. I felt lips ghost against my forehead and my insides unraveled. If this was an abomination, I wanted to be the most unholy creature on God’s green earth. “You’ll be okay.”

Percy’s words were soothing, even if they were lies.

“Don’t leave me.” I whispered, desperate. “Please, don’t leave me. I felt so alone there and I feel so alone now.”

Percy hushed me again, pressing his lips more firmly to my forehead. “I won’t, Monty. I’d never leave you.” He whispered. His hands left my hair and for a moment I thought he was going to sit in the chair at my desk. I felt the weight on the mattress as he joined me in bed, laying behind me. I turned, slowly and with a good amount of wincing, to face him. I opened my eyes to meet his.

Percy offered a small, sympathetic smile that I couldn’t return. He rubbed my shoulder, gently to avoid hurting me. He didn’t know where all I’d been hit. “Get some sleep, Monty. I won’t leave, I promise.”


End file.
